Fools' Mates
by Ember Nickel
Summary: The Arbiter doesn't like women. He doesn't take dope. And he doesn't understand how they can think each other more important or interesting than the game.
1. Chapter 1

_Inspired by chicafrom3's 2011 Queer Fest prompt: "he doesn't understand how they can think each other more important or interesting than the game." Most of this was written for the 2012 Queer Big Bang, but I realized I wouldn't hit the length minimum so I dropped out but just finished it now. So if it seems like the word count has been padded early on, or changes tone slightly towards the end, that's probably why._

_Anyway, this is the Arbiter's inner monologue, subdivided based on the tracks of the concept album. Mostly random poetry, in a few cases it can be sung to the tune of (usually instrumental) parts of the corresponding track._

_Many more notes to come, no doubt._

As they sing out their song I can smile along  
And my heart is as light as a bird softly feathered.  
It's easy to smile when all of the while  
I'm lighter than air, standing tall and untethered.

They stand in the basin or douse someone's face in  
The waters purporting to cure all that ails,  
With hearts full of hopes under mountainous slopes  
That it'll be somebody foreign who fails.

And I hope as well, though my heart doesn't swell  
With the same anthems that under breaths go half-hidden,  
Hope there's no distractions, undermining actions,  
Anything untoward, unkind or unbidden.

While some challenge their brains, others soften their veins  
Or arteries, so they would have you believe  
But I'll take a couple of steaks-plenty supple,  
My heart's inner workings aren't reason to grieve.

Though gewgaws are nifty, I'm just too spendthrifty  
To spring for some oversized German man's bust.  
And too much of spending-well, that could start sending  
The message that I'm bribable or unjust.

But Tyrol is pleasant and many are present  
Or watching from faraway, over their screens  
The world is tuned in to see who will win-  
Why, one could imagine no lovelier scenes.

I'll be keeping busy. The heights may be dizzy  
And the mountains provide more than enough..."heights."  
Though I feel small beside them I still will take pride  
That I've reached the summit of my career's sights.

In a hotel I'll stay in between all the play  
I am not a native with roots to put down  
But this is all right, it's enough for tonight,  
And the couple of weeks that I'll spend in the town.


	2. Chapter 2

Oh there ain't no machine like the Soviet machine.  
No knowledge so dense and no cunning so keen.  
No human or robot, no person or being  
Can plan out so far with their foresight so seeing.

And over the radio they've been waiting, lately  
Orderly, calm, thinking forward, and stately.  
All for a knight that would forward spring  
All for that small of a jump of a thing.

Now they can show off this skill, playing their own  
But playing others, their depth really is shown.  
Reshevsky played Smyslov, decades in the past  
In a match that showed how their knowledge was vast.

For forty-five minutes, the airwaves were still  
Reshevky tried to muster up all his skill  
And then came the leap and the question, "Perhaps  
You'd say how much of your time you'd let elapse?"

And Smyslov sat there and tried hard not to laugh.  
In all, Reshevsky took an hour and a half  
To get to that point, just twenty-two moves in.  
Smyslov used one minute. (He went on to win.)

The Soviets had studied the line, it turned out  
Why, such openings had been written about  
In a magazine (June '45 edition).  
So Smyslov forged through to a winning condition.

Perhaps if Reshevsky's team had had foresight  
They might have found out and been able to cite  
Boleslavsky, Cortlever and Euwe; instead  
He had to stop nineteen moves later, face red.

And now with the world tuning in even more  
I'm sure that the seconds will draw on their lore  
Of opening lines their man can memorize.  
That's what they must be doing, since they're so wise.


	3. Chapter 3

There are things which I'm thinking of-  
Take the Immortal Game  
In the past, but remembered still  
(The hint is in the name).

In London, Europe's chess players  
The brightest and the best  
Gathered in eighteen fifty-one  
A bracket to contest.

And in time Adolf Anderssen  
Achieved the victor's crown,  
And went right back to teaching in  
Another land and town.

I haven't studied the bracket,  
Can't tell you who he beat  
Along the path to victory,  
But do know of a feat

Occurring in a restaurant  
During a break in play  
A game with daring gambits  
Celebrated still today.

Perhaps this year could be the same  
A minor spa play host  
To some informal game that's still  
Immortalized the most

Of all the many games that will  
Certainly take place here,  
And other tournaments besides.  
Maybe all of the year.

But who else might be thinking of  
It? Sadly, I believe  
It's crossing nobody's mind here.  
That game's nothing that we've

Seen with our own eyes. Nobody  
Alive here is that old.  
But still the scoresheet waits for its  
Story to be retold.

Where would you go if you wanted to change  
Your name at the end of the tourney?  
For all their muttering, it'd be strange.  
Wait until the return journey.

But were you too desperate, where would you go?  
Stomp up the mountains idyllic  
Fling out your passport and angrily show  
Them a new scrawl in Cyrillic?

Or fleeing from questions and the camera's glare  
Flashing from hollering critics  
Find the name-change office and just ask there  
For something without diacritics?

And what would you tell all your relatives when  
You made your defeated arrival?  
"Yeah, you used to know me as Mr. X—then  
I lost this chess match to my rival."

And how would the world know it still wasn't you?  
Would you curl up in shame, stop playing?  
I'm hardly an expert, but in one man's view  
The prospect looks rather dismaying.

For in both their faces, it's easy to find  
That restless excitement and hunger  
That's only fulfilled when they immerse their mind,  
The older as well as the younger.

So I don't expect they'll really change their names,  
That one is a pseudonym-chooser.  
They'll still have the joy at the start of the games.  
No matter who comes out the loser.

Some say white it is a sheet  
On which to write your parents' crimes  
And their grandparents' before them  
And stretching back to ancient times  
All the sins of your forefathers  
All the mistakes that they've made  
Inked into your flaking skin  
With a mark that will not fade

Some say red it is a drop  
Of blood that courses through your heart  
Making loops and loops around  
Just to finish at the start  
That will leap and miss a beat  
When you run across the path  
Of your so-called soul mate or  
Spill from you in righteous wrath

Some say blue it is the night  
That consumes a broken day  
When it mercifully ends  
Your tears washing it away  
Some say blue it is the dawn  
Poking through your window drape  
Bringing the pain back alive  
A loss you cannot escape

Some say orange it is a fruit  
Grown by labor, daily grinds  
Carefully eaten by bites  
To avoid the bitter rinds  
Some say orange it is a drink  
In a cup of colored drops  
To be savored one by one  
Till you're full or till it stops

Some say green it is the grass  
That grows on a sporting pitch  
And that covers land outside  
From the plain to hill to ditch  
Some say green it is the leaf  
Of a tree that still can grow  
Even if it's only green  
For half of the year or so

Some say yellow is the sun  
A ninety-three million mile  
Trip from your plots and your play  
From your gambits and your guile  
That brings light and that brings heat  
That brings sickness and that burns  
In our revolutions onward  
In our spins and in its turns

Who am I to speak of color?  
There are contrasts I can see  
But the vagaries of color  
Are for subtler minds than me.  
There is something I may yet know  
There are things I understand.  
I have solved a Rubik's Cube, once,  
Turned its colors in my hand.

We have no creed, no gospel, nothing but  
These loves and traditions that see us through.  
Some say that faith is hope stuck in a rut,  
Unwilling to embrace anything new,  
But some are wrong. They do not know we give  
Names to eras. Players might take up paint,  
Judged by the standards of the time they live.  
"Modernist" isn't "time-defying saint."  
And classicists aren't in a hallowed class.  
Be their sacrifices (not like that one) frantic,  
The Romanticists too saw their time pass.  
But don't quote me on that—I'm no romantic.  
And though I will make sure all toe the line,  
It is my honor and my right to lead,  
My powers don't stem from some source divine,  
Nor are there secrets only I can read.

Yet I doubt not that Caissa watches still.  
Not just a dryad bound unto her tree  
But goddess of all things, for good and ill,  
All things that were or are or are to be,  
Not just these games. Though we have come indoors,  
God knows much more needs blessing, throughout lands  
Tormented by—cold or otherwise—wars.  
There's chill, not just outside, but in our hands.


	4. Chapter 4

I'd be first to say that the champion's sporting  
Behavior's past praise. No amount  
Of praise that describes the way he's been comporting  
Himself is a truthful amount,

No matter how small. (And the fact that I'm fearless  
And favorless goes without saying.)  
As immaturity goes, he's almost peerless.  
What happens should they begin playing?

It's not that I'll stand for their petty objections,  
But let's lay the rules out, each clause,  
So that I don't have to start making corrections  
Should they bicker over bylaws.

But how could his petulance signal attraction  
Or lack thereof? It isn't telling  
Except inasmuch as it says "to each faction  
Of sane folks, this man is repelling."

And if you're instead saying he's off his rocker  
Whether it's a chair or a horse  
I'd only be shocked that you found that a shocker.  
It's rather a matter of course.

The winners I've seen haven't been much for swaying  
Calmly going forth and then back  
But just press ahead, resolute in their playing  
Be it on defense or attack.

I'm not justifying actions reprehensible,  
All that I mean is that it dawns  
On you why such attitudes are rather sensible  
When you start setting up pawns.

Sure, there's _en passant_ with its loopholes creative  
But the rules are easily found  
To be as simple as they are legislative;  
"March forward and don't turn around."

It's not complicated, it could be far odder.  
But leaving pawns just as they are,  
An undisturbed rank made of undisturbed fodder  
Won't get them and won't get you far.

Perhaps this appeals to the strange and the barmy.  
Remember what this all stands for.  
The featureless wood is meant to be an army.  
The game is a model of war.


	5. Chapter 5

Postwar, the vanquished and resisters  
And nonaligned joined up as sisters  
Twinning towns across the seas.  
It made for funny family trees.

In ghost towns and abandoned haunts  
Did some families have maiden aunts?  
Half-siblings must have numbered dozens  
And could there have been second cousins

As close as real first cousins? Maybe.  
It's nice to have another baby  
Around to coddle now and then.  
Were there cosmopolitan men

Who got around and laid foundations  
For relatives across the nations?  
If some young towns were late to opt  
In, at what point could you adopt

A neighbor? Were there some divorces  
Of geopolitical forces?  
Did corruption lead to schism  
After too much nepotism?

Or did strained nephews and nieces  
Try to put back all the pieces  
With familial affections  
After bloody insurrections?

And don't start on the two Berlins  
Or now-blended Siamese twins.  
Yes, things must have been quite messed  
Up in Buda and in Pest.

They say it won't creep up on you. In a rush,  
Everything that you had planned falls apart,  
Broken up under the weight of a crush,  
You blink and you find that you've misplaced your heart.

Then comes the hurried demand to retrace  
Your steps as you try to find out where you've been.  
But once you are heartless even though you face  
The same things nothing looks quite like it did then.

The colors shine brighter but blur as they fleet  
Your friends are the same and you can't recognize  
Them, like it was years since you happened to meet.  
Is the problem in your chest or in your eyes?

You'll mock their old songs, the lilt in their young voice  
Even though you can't really say what's come upon  
You, not like it was any kind of a choice,  
And just as quickly you'll blink and it's gone.

And then—they don't say this so often—but still  
You try to throw yourself back onto your friends  
Confident that you then can control your own will  
And treat them, not as means to your joy, but ends.

Perhaps some of them will still be on a quest  
To find out where their hearts have been left behind  
And won't be around for you. But all the rest  
Will put up with you and they won't seem to mind.

Or maybe you'll never find that trusty muscle  
No matter how tirelessly you seek it  
But somewhere amid all the rush and the hustle  
You'll find someone else's that happens to fit

Just perfectly, since they have already found  
Your own and decided it was a fair trade.  
And off you both go, by beats and by blood bound  
And so, they say, are the beautiful bonds made.

But should it keep bouncing out of your skin  
And leading you on a chase while it should hide  
And then start all over when it pops back in  
Perhaps you will still have some friends by your side

Who half-know that emptiness under the bones—  
Not something quite named and not something quite felt  
But at least compared to more general knowns.  
That moment when time and space might as well melt,

Your name is forgotten and you are engrossed  
In _something_. Your heart may have well gone away  
Along with the rest of you. Or at least most—  
But it always comes back at the end of the day.


	6. Chapter 6

The bounds and then the leaps  
And meanwhile the slow advancing in the pushes and the creeps.  
And the slow looks around and steps aside  
And then the line of defense taking shape with something left to hide.

Slowly they interlock  
The scorecards measure out their progress as they play; so does the clock.  
Pieces guarding each other stand in chains  
And perhaps it's slow to crumple but below the surface everything is tied up and will shatter at the moment when it strains.

Card, clock...like rook and knight  
They have their different uses to be noticed when the time is right.  
When I first learned to play, I marked my sheet  
So I knew what I could improve upon when I fell to defeat.

Time flew; the hour came  
When I was rushing pieces madly like it was a different game.  
No more time for distractions, don't record  
Any moves but just keep rushing all your thoughts and move your hand from the clock back and forth to pieces on the, by now empty, board.

The rules made the distinction clear:  
Circumstances are different, here.  
Three hundred seconds left and then  
You'd know that you could drop your pen.  
Our hands stretched out across the way  
We'd snag pieces in frenzied play.  
The rest of the time, sit and wait.  
Be quiet, take your time, notate.

Where is so clear a sign  
To say that something strange is happening here now the power's mine?  
Given precedent, nothing is unheard  
Of but I'd rather they control themselves before things get absurd.

Please, keep your distance. It's  
Quite inappropriate to get too close, there's no need to kibitz.  
I'm sure there is plenty an analyst  
Who will go over their strategies in real time or just afterwards. You'll get your fill, don't try to signal anything. Desist.

Each crown and every cross  
Symbols inherited from centuries past, forgotten in a loss.  
Equally unremembered in a draw.  
There are museum pieces, admittedly, that inspire awe

But moves are judged as good  
Or bad, if they were made by pieces made of plastic or of wood.  
And as long as the board is eight by eight  
No one cares a whit about it but somehow this year its point of origin and the wood's breed turn into a topic for debate.

They who need not rise from their seats  
Raise voices, call the other cheats.  
True accusations or mere bunk?  
The crowd grows in and brings their junk.  
A friendly smile or a code?  
We've already been down this road  
In seventy-eight. Random stuff  
Has no place in this hall. Enough!


	7. Chapter 7

Another tournament is here, and I'm  
_Standing in shadows of an icy peak_  
Watching grandmasters do their best to climb  
_They hope to grasp, or cling to, what they seek:_  
The ranks of fame. Each on a different file  
_And everything below them giving way_  
They stretch their hands for more, but all the while  
_It makes an almost worrying display._  
The flags and ads still flutter and no word  
_Speaking of risk or glory that echoes,_  
Can reach them. It's as if I can't be heard  
_Will they thaw out? Who's living and who froze?_

And say our champion, pushed to the brink  
Is driven past drugs and is driven past drink  
Right to some hidden-away, obscure cliff,  
And flies for an instant before going stiff;

Then what? I imagine the Soviets will whisk  
Their champion back home with speed rather brisk  
And trumpet it as a systemic success;  
"If nothing else, ours doesn't bring that much stress."

And what of his second? Will she just assist  
Another competitor down on the list?  
Or play other women? Or play against men?  
And if the women's circuit dies out, what then?

(I've never quite seen why the leagues are distinct.  
I suspect the answer might well be succinct  
But telling the truth just makes people feel shame.  
I should know by now. I'm in charge of this game...)

And what of the challenger who will no longer  
Be challenging, of course, if nobody's stronger?  
Perhaps for his own life he'd start having fears:  
(That'd be the second mishap in four years.)

Or would he regret how the match fell apart?  
Perhaps things could have gotten off to a start  
More smoothly than this. So they _should've_ begun.  
Or would he be sad that the match is now done

Before he could really prove his skill (or lack  
Thereof)? That so quickly he has to go back?  
Not that I think he'd care where he left behind  
So busy would he be at honing his mind,

But never to know if he _really_ was good  
Enough to be champion. Knowing he should  
Shut up, there are better things to focus on.  
Who cares about you when a man's life is gone?

And what of the country where he, part-admired  
Part-cursed at and part-ignored, somehow inspired  
A new generation to come to the board?  
Would those quiet squares be passed on and ignored?

Or shoved away? "Look how that addles your brain!  
We'll have none of that in my house, kid. Refrain."  
Or would he still have the power to amaze?  
The brash winner, him of the last snowy blaze?

Myself, I suppose I would freeze up and chill  
But know that there would be paperwork to fill  
And fill it out, asterisked footnote by line.  
And give my condolences. And say "I'm fine."

* * *

The first section is in double-exposure style, a form due to Greg Williamson; the entire thing is meant to be coherent, but so are the italicized and non-italicized lines taken separately.


	8. Chapter 8

Is half of the world really paying attention?  
I haven't kept up with the viewing  
Figures. There's too much here and far too much tension.  
It looks like trouble could be brewing

Despite all the challenger's growing momentum.  
Even though he's picking up steam  
Some spanner in the works could surely prevent him  
From taking the title he'd seem

So natural in. Many draws can be stifling.  
Perhaps leads will go to his head,  
Or some dumb distraction, some frivolous trifling  
Could make this protracted instead.

Not that I would mind. It's an honor observing  
Two minds at the top of their game  
But given how quickly things can get unnerving?  
I'm fine with a win, all the same.

So, half of the world. I guess television  
Is cheaper than I'd understood.  
More access, more places, worldwide less division?  
I take it that's probably good.

Do people stay up to watch it at all hours?  
Or does geography contrive  
(It's time zones, not nations, that are the real powers)  
To stop them from watching it live?

After all their years of careful refinement  
To train players in these small acts  
Do they thrill those who have professed non-alignment  
As well as signers of big pacts?

I know, we're united, no matter our classes  
Or countries or anything such  
As that. I just didn't know so many masses  
Happened to enjoy chess that much.

One half of the world. And his wife, if the rumors  
Are true. But nobody believes  
That people get paired off, that there aren't late bloomers,  
Each flower, each bud, and all leaves

In some correspondence to some other flora?  
That couldn't work out. For somehow  
There's always unfaithful people who will ignore a  
Meant-to-be-more-meaningful vow

And some who don't make them, as some never marry.  
Some's romantic gestures fall through,  
Some have in mind candidates but still will tarry  
And I guess there are others who

Never saw the signs that the ravers and lovers  
Go on about, but instead  
Are happy enough whether under the covers  
Or over them, single in bed.

It's like something that has been lost in translation  
From a language I don't speak.  
I can read this alphabet in any nation  
But beyond one point, it's all Greek.

And even if we all felt equal attraction  
That still wouldn't solve things, for then  
We'd have to finagle with the gender fraction  
Since women tend to outlive men.

I really can't think of statistics much dafter  
Then how many people tune in.  
Let's save all the television noise for after,  
Let's wait and just see who will win.


	9. Chapter 9

When you're on top of the world all the cable  
Cars only go downhill. But at least they run  
At your beck and call. It's done and I'm unable  
To explain what's happened now that someone's won.

Sure it's a long journey to reach the air rarefied  
But the journey west could be longer by far.  
Are all of the Soviets really that terrified  
Of their state? If not, who do you think you are?

As you make your way out of the mountain ranges  
Do you think the way ahead is free of bumps  
Before all the upheaval and all the changes,  
You've already taken your fill of your lumps,

Or that you will also inspire prodigious  
Youngsters to pick up the game so they can star  
Like the dethroned champion, be that prestigious  
In a foreign land? Who do you think you are?

You are not reputed to be very flighty.  
Is it just that you want wealth and chose to chase  
The dollar its droolers-over call almighty  
Or are you seeking some thrills in a new place?

Is there a dark secret that's risking disclosure,  
Some misdeed beyond forgiveness that would mar  
A record of triumphs quiet, earned with composure  
That you need to flee? Who do you think you are?

Is Molokov useless? Do you need a second  
To push you even higher? But what remains  
For anyone to teach you now that you're reckoned  
The best there is? What does it matter who trains?

We don't need to stick to traditions like royal  
Figureheads. Moving across borders is par  
For the course post-Korchnoi. No need to be loyal  
To birth countries. But who do you think you are?

And _you_! You too played your part, gave some assistance,  
A change in allegiance as at a hat's drop.  
Is this just some anti-Soviet resistance  
Or just working with whoever is on top?

Was it already fraying, your old alliance?  
Can you pull away quickly and leave no scar  
Or is this a painful gesture of defiance?  
And in either case, who do _you_ think you are?

Do you plan to carry on as his adviser?  
He might need somebody else to give him tips  
Do you think you're stuck analyzing the wiser  
Players' games? Or was this just helping with trips?

How have you so quickly reached this understanding  
With him? Could this insult be seen as a bar  
To diplomats' wrangling? It seems like you're standing  
On very thin ice. Who do you think you are?

This will make a fuss, no matter how pacific  
Your intentions, no matter if it's just pride.  
And since most people tend to think peace terrific  
They'll start to wonder who's really on whose side.

A trip that can't be measured by automotive  
Miles in a (cable or otherwise) car—  
Both of you, why do this now? What is your motive?  
What has possessed you? Who do you think you are?


	10. Chapter 10

Fairy problems used to be fun.  
Take a position, try to trace  
It back in time. There's only one  
Last move, perhaps, for some strange case.

In the best puzzles each piece counts,  
Some for the places they can move,  
And some just in combined amounts.  
Their numbers, looking backwards, prove

How many captures have been made,  
Which doubled pawns suggest as well,  
Revealing more of what's been played.  
With this in mind you then can tell

Whether that corner bishop came  
Up as a pawn and got transformed.  
But in real play, it's all the same.  
The curious can be informed

By scoresheets and no one will care  
If it had been a pawn or not.  
It doesn't matter once it's there.  
You use whatever piece you've got.


	11. Chapter 11

Angels and demons;  
They stand interlocked in  
Escherian chessboards, distorted, no one giving way.

Trapped in that balance  
They lie flat and lifeless  
Until some divine power breaks it up, changes the rules, holds some sway.

Such powerful opposing forces!  
I'm no exorcist, can't constrict them.  
But stuck in their opposing courses.  
There's something to say for the fact that they're not humans and so you can _predict_ them.

And were there many gods, perhaps they'd clamor  
For shares of our devotion, with their glamor  
Competing, at their altars brash and golden,  
For our attention, like they were beholden  
To us and not the other way around.  
Our prayers would blur with their imploring sound.

Instead, alone I give my thanks I'm just  
Watching this, not umpiring it. I trust  
Whoever they've rustled up will ensure  
The rules are upheld, the arena's pure  
Of all distractions. Outside, flashing, gaudy  
Lights try to slow minds, light up limb and body.  
Even I think it can get pretty crass  
Although were I there, I'd shuffle by, pass  
With my head down. Instead the lights still blink  
Upon the screen. They say the world will shrink:  
Perhaps it's growing smaller every day  
But still, the city looks so far away.


	12. Chapter 12

If it were love I wouldn't have  
A second I could give away;  
The seconds are for the players,  
And these days, well, I hardly play.

If it were love I'd be confused.  
I've gotten used to life, and, well,  
To feel something bizarre and new?  
I'm not sure I could really tell.

If it were love I'd stay in place.  
No longer does my work demand  
That I scamper around the world  
To judge within a distant land.

If it were love it wouldn't be  
Like anything I'd felt before.  
And since I'm already complete,  
It would somehow have to be more.

How could I split my mind apart  
And give a smaller place to reason?  
And how could any genius  
So suddenly decide on treason?

Once time became my enemy  
When everybody seemed to grow,  
Compelled by something they could sense  
But that I never seemed to know.

Not love—for love is all around,  
My family's hands, in faith, in passion  
For doing good, for doing well—  
But bodies that pass out of fashion.

So there they are, with broken vows  
And glories past, and scheming spies.  
The deepest thinkers in the world  
Are much like me: very unwise.

As strange as all my loves can seem  
I will wholeheartedly deny  
I'm stranger than that crowd, combined.  
That bar is just not set that high.


	13. Chapter 13

I suppose it's been a year  
Since the brisk mountainous climes  
Hosted us. Watching from here  
Not much has changed in those times.

Someone else will try his best,  
And the cycle moves along,  
Putting others to the test.  
I suppose I could be wrong

But the constant showdowns look  
Like a cry for more attention  
To our sport, an easy "hook,"  
When we hardly rated mention

Till the politics came in  
Which I suppose wasn't great.  
Any loss or any win  
Would exceed seventy-eight

When good fortune is concerned.  
But right now, alas, I doubt  
Whether anybody's learned  
That we ought to spread things out.

So we forge full speed ahead.  
And they bring back the old champ  
What do I suppose he's said  
By the river dark and damp?

"How time flies, I can't believe  
That it's not me here today.  
Although it was hard to leave  
The top echelons of play

Still I'm studying the game  
And can tell you what you'll see,  
From old comrade—what'shisname—  
Or this comrade here, now free.

As the spotlights blink and glare  
Will they wilt before the start?  
Now, of course, I must be fair,  
My own questions played their part.

What tactics do you expect?  
And how will you make reply?  
Some attack, clear and direct?  
Or a more subtle reply?

Do you need to catch a break,  
Pace the shores so loud and muddy,  
Or do you not have to take  
Any respite from your study?"

There will be questions beyond  
Those dreamed up right here by me.  
How will the winner respond?  
I'll just turn on this TV

And then watch the interview,  
So I can find out just how  
It plays out...oh, what are you  
Idiots discussing now?

* * *

My headcanon is that Act I happened in 1981 (when the world championship actually was in Merano; the arbiter's references to "hypnotists" place it after the 1978 tournament). That tournament should, in real life, have seen the challenger face depending champion Anatoly Karpov, but the latter is obviously not here, so I'm going to assume he suddenly died in the interim, the fictionalized American became champion either by winning a challengers' tournament (for the right to face Karpov) or a special tournament to determine the new champion (like happened in 1948). The Russian either finished runner-up in the first challenger's tournament or won a later challengers' tournament for the right to face the American, which makes this their first one-on-one East/West showdown.

This would have been slightly easier/creepier if Garry Kasparov, who is in RL a Russian political "dissenter," had been the previous champion...oh well ;)


	14. Chapter 14

Now once or twice I've almost understood  
That seeing certain people might feel good,  
A way to please the eyes. But though we tease-  
"The eyes are windows to the soul-" some seize  
Upon this concept and then claim the fates  
Collude to set them up with some soul mates.  
There's scholar's mates and smothered mates and more,  
There's stalemates when both sides earn the same score,  
But soul mates are a concept quite bizarre.  
To say that all but one in billions are  
Unfit for your love and unfit for you—  
But one person is—just does not ring true.  
What happens if they were too young or old?  
What if, because they never had been told  
Of this concept, they went ahead and wed  
Somebody who was not their match instead?  
What if somebody was your match, for certain,  
But on the far side of the Iron Curtain?  
The whole entire premise is so dumb.  
Differences in norm can be overcome:  
I'd hate to judge a nation at one glance  
When people vary by nature and chance,  
But by and large, if you are on your own  
Looking for someone outside your time zone,  
I wouldn't try prolonging such a search  
That would most likely leave you in the lurch.

And looking back, what more could I have done?  
I couldn't change which player lost or won.  
Since I don't carry out passport inspections,  
It's not my job to stop any defections.  
If anything, cut down on the delays  
So there could be less time between the plays.  
Not quite as many moments lost to fights,  
Not quite as many nervous, fitful nights.  
But it's somebody else's problem here,  
Another tournament, another year.  
I've no regrets, and even if I did  
There still would be no way I could get rid  
Of them. Even in puzzles, looking back  
("This came from this square, this must have been black...")  
Unraveling stories behind the game-  
Is its own endeavor. It's not the same.


	15. Chapter 15

Dictatorships of each stripe  
Be it tin-pot or much more sober  
Frown on each subversive type  
Whether in April or October.

They will endure if the bulk  
Of their citizens merely cower,  
Ignoring, sometimes, a sulk  
Within the corridors of power.

So those with the chance to sneak  
Away to places more progressive  
Could hardly be poor or meek-  
What need then for the acts transgressive?

No, he's not a refugee.  
Just took his chances when they beckoned.  
Who could set the odds that he  
Would work with his opponent's second?

They say that there's more at play  
Entangling veterans and rookies.  
So I wonder; who are they?  
And since when has chess had these bookies?

I know the answer, or guess;  
When the politicians first chorused  
About nations and not chess,  
They saw the trees and missed the forest.

Two games down and all could change  
In one or in the other's favor  
Based on how their tactics range  
Who is more cautious, who is braver.

Only weaknesses or when  
One or the other is mistaken  
Can produce changes that then  
See the leader get overtaken.

If ignorance makes it fun,  
Diversity just comes through error,  
And folly decides who won-  
Then how do I suppress the terror

Of thrown matches, a fixed game?  
I hear them say it's just a title,  
Champion is a nice name,  
But all things considered, not vital.

I crave genius to take  
A fresh look at the game's position,  
Advantage of each mistake,  
Not collude with the opposition.


	16. Chapter 16

When I was nine I felt like eight. Or ten.  
Birthdays never brought monumental shifts;  
A new school year would come around, and then  
I'd feel-grown up. And slowly as time drifts  
My hands would grow more quickly than my toys,  
And I'd be old enough to stay up late,  
Provided that I didn't make much noise.  
But being nine felt much like being eight.  
As smart as I was, this remained unknown:  
That I would not fit in like they'd expect  
But I'd be normal until I had grown  
And then stand by and watch others connect.

When I was twelve the world quickened its pace.  
There was less time to wait, more to compete.  
Though I was lean enough to run a race,  
I was as focused when my mind was fleet.  
My parents were both tolerant and kind,  
Never forced me to go any which way,  
And nothing too specific came to mind.  
I couldn't guess that I'd be here today.  
I played my games and more or less did well.  
Won little tournaments, nothing prestigious.  
Doing my best did not mean I'd excel;  
I was a child but never that prodigious.

So I turned fifteen, eighteen, twenty-one,  
And did not change, a child in mind and heart.  
Better to think my life had just begun,  
I hadn't fallen too far from the start.  
For life was full of ranks, grade after grade.  
There were so many people to compare  
Ourselves to that true talent was displayed;  
"He reads above grade level!" Life was fair.  
So too the humble pawn that can't retreat  
Plots through the ranks till it becomes a queen  
Or whatever its player deems most meet  
For that position. You know what I mean.  
I never sought a queen to stand beside.  
(No king, either; I don't know who'd have cared.)  
And never have I thought I should have tried;  
I think I'd look a fool if I had dared.  
But I'm mature now, making work from play.  
I don't mind other people's strange reactions:  
Though now and then I'll pity them when they  
Can't focus, too surrounded by distractions.


	17. Chapter 17

Age brings nothing.  
Neither wisdom nor  
Rust that rots and  
Means you cannot score.

It won't destroy you but don't take for granted  
Success that comes swiftly, you might be supplanted  
So each game matters.

So you move on to find some new possession  
And only when centuries will pass in succession  
Flags turn to tatters.

Then in the future the wood will be rotten  
And all of the faces will flicker, forgotten  
But this notation

If it's recorded, someone could decipher  
It long after each land today people die for,  
Whatever nation.

And why should I then look to hold  
Pieces or hands that will grow old?  
Why bother with your strange defections?  
Why bother with your strange affections?  
These scoresheets will crumple and fade  
But all the moves that have been played  
Will never make any less sense  
If they're read thousands of years hence.

What future could hold better things  
Then chasing down these pawns and kings  
When rules simple as this could last  
To reach us from the distant past?  
While other fads have come and gone  
A single game is seen to spawn  
A host of variants. They offer  
A way to fill many a coffer

But don't catch on. Try as we might,  
It's hard to make simple delight.  
And I suspect that no one will  
Improve on it through human skill.  
For whether they're Yankees or Reds,  
A pleasure comes from butting heads  
And putting yourself to the test  
Against your era's would-be best.

Yet, looking forward beyond here  
There comes a spark of distant fear.  
No _human_ skill could so transcend  
The game, competition would end.  
But will some inhuman machine  
With engines far more fast or keen  
Than this our feeble matter gray  
Solve the whole game with perfect play?

Then even should this page endure  
(A thought which is by no means sure)  
It might be read with mocking voice.  
"They thought they made the smartest choice,  
Thought through a dozen moves or so.  
Mere human minds; what did they know?  
They thought this was a complex game  
Well worth their time. We're not the same."

It wouldn't be the same, I vow,  
As studying games before now.  
Yes, old tactics went out of style  
But played by humans all the while  
Who could yet fall for some surprise.  
They were not perfect or all-wise.  
A database that cannot lose  
Would be something else, and bad news.

If there was a not a thinking mind  
That sat within or lurked behind  
This thing, nothing wanted to win,  
Then what of worth would sit therein?  
A host of moves that just destroy  
The way that we can now enjoy  
The game, played by the best we've known,  
But with no outcome set in stone.

We're not machines; we understand  
The joy of seeing what we planned  
Turned into a successful scheme.  
We hope, we lose, we win, we dream.  
We move, we watch, we arbitrate,  
Not from some predetermined state  
But part of a world where we grieve  
And hurt, and mock, and love, and leave.

I love my family and friends;  
I know they are not means but ends,  
They are far more than tools to use,  
Though someday some of us will lose  
These friendships. I suppose that's fine;  
Their loves count to them, more than mine.  
But I have no reason to change  
Them from themselves; the thought is strange.

Since there isn't anybody  
I'd want to come and alter me  
I leave my friends just as they are  
Which seems the simplest path by far.  
Ignoring these changes of heart,  
The way they arrive and depart  
Is worth being called paranoid...  
When there's the game to be enjoyed.


	18. Chapter 18

All they've been looking for their whole career  
Is how to think alone, without a peer  
Knowing the reasons behind what they did.  
So this is how it ends. At last, you hid  
Your reasons deep enough you don't know why  
You stay or go. Of course, neither do I.  
When you're confused, we stand on equal ground.  
I've watched all this go on and never found  
For sure what drove you as you'd rise or fall;  
But no shame not knowing. Can't win 'em all.

I know of another old legend or fable.  
I'm not going to promise it's true.  
As vouching for these details goes, I'm not able.  
But then again, neither are you.

The story goes, chess was an ancient invention  
That so greatly pleased an old king  
There was no reward too outlandish to mention.  
"Just ask a boon; that I shall bring.

Some gold or some gems? A court seat or some armor?"  
"Your highness, I seek nothing nice."  
"You must! I insist!" "Well then, find me a farmer  
To give me a small grain of rice."

"One grain?" said the king, trying to detect wryness.  
"When I could make you a great lord?  
Is that all you want?" "If it suits you, your highness,  
I'd place it right here on this board.

And if there were any more grains you could borrow  
By gathering crops in advance,  
Why, then I might stop here again on the morrow  
And pick up two more grains, by chance.

I'd place them right here, on a square that would border  
The first. On the day after that,  
I'd take twice as many. That's four." "I'm no hoarder,"  
The king interrupted and sat

Back down on the throne. "And on the day after  
You'll want eight, I take it?" "Well, yes.  
And so on for sixty-four days." Cuing laughter  
From the king. "You give me this chess

And ask for eight grains at a time? What a trifle!  
Of course I agree. Thanks once more."  
He fetched the first grain, without trying to stifle  
His glee, from the royal food store.

Well, if you haven't heard this one, I won't spoil  
The ending. You go do the math.  
Depends on the version, it ranges from royal  
Chagrin to outright kingly wrath.

No family connections here, no feuding brothers,  
Just why to think through moves ahead,  
And maybe why you're best off trusting that others  
Are content if that's what they've said.

Now granted, this might not have been too engaging  
If there was just chess on your mind,  
This seems a diversion, irrelevant staging,  
But alas, such is life, I find.

Maybe the young loves are wiser.  
Maybe I am just a miser,  
But this much I'll claim to know,  
Moments come and moments go.

Friends can touch my heart and soul,  
Yet even alone I'm whole.  
There's no need for me to wait  
Around seeking out a mate.

I wonder, a passing thought  
Since I cannot change a lot,  
How would things become remade  
If the world were mine to trade?

I'm fine as I am today  
But not everyone can say,  
Unless they're lying, the same.  
I'd show them to love the game

Or love whatever they've sworn  
To. Not the place they were born,  
But whatever they would choose  
To hold to and not to lose.

I would need not understand  
Then to lend a helping hand.  
They'd respect the competitions  
Or ignore all these positions.

All the games would work out fair.  
If they saw me, if they'd care,  
They would not view me with pity.  
And then, city after city,

I would fix all that was messed  
Up in strife-torn Budapest,  
Unless they were happy twins,  
There need not be two Berlins.

Everything that still divides  
Makes us needlessly choose sides,  
Traps a bordered, confused town,  
Would vanish- the walls come down-


End file.
